


90 Percent

by fennecfawkes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Christmas, F/F, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gift Exchange, Happy Ending, M/M, Rescue Mission, Reunion, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennecfawkes/pseuds/fennecfawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For brassmama, who was looking for Phil/Trip or Phil/Clint (I went Phil/Clint), Skye and Phil with a father daughter dynamic, background Hand/Hartley, and a Christmas fic with a happy ending.</p><p>With a mission gone wrong and classified gift exchange (not Secret Santa, that makes it sound dumb) on the line, Director Coulson is forced to call in the best sniper he knows. Too bad he never told said sniper he was still alive.</p><p>Note: this was written between episodes 8 and 9 of season 2, so it's even less canon compliant than it was when I wrote it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	90 Percent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brassmama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brassmama/gifts).



“For a minute there,” says Phil, “I thought we’d be able to have a real Christmas.”

“Why are you in my cockpit?”

“I mean, sure, it’s been quiet lately, and that usually means something big’s going to happen. But did it really have to be Christmas Eve?”

“I’d repeat my question, but I’m pretty sure you heard me and chose to ignore it.”

“It’s not like it’s been the easiest year. Everyone could use a break. You know Skye hasn’t celebrated Christmas in about a decade? I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“Phil.”

“Yes?”

“It’s Hartley,” May says. “And it’s Hand, and they were both presumed dead up until we got this intel. So I think we can sacrifice Secret Santa—”

“Classified gift exchange. Secret Santa just makes it sound dumb.”

“—for two dead women walking.”

“...I guess. Still want me to get out of your cockpit?”

“More than anything.”

Phil stands. Two hours before, Bobbi—who’d been on a different mission entirely—contacted the team, informing them that they’d heard whispers of Isabelle Hartley and Victoria Hand, alive but not well at a largely abandoned Hydra base in Scotland. She and Hunter were now headed that way via quinjet while Phil and the others trailed in the Bus. Delivering the briefing that canceled Christmas and delayed the classified gift exchange indefinitely had been a bit draining; Simmons cried, and Skye had left the room without saying anything. Phil took that as his cue to go whine to May. Now that he had that taken care of, he supposed he was on the hook to talk to Skye.

She opens the door to her quarters before he has a chance to knock a second time. “Hey,” she says. She’s not smiling, which isn’t a great sign.

“Hey,” says Phil. “I just wanted to reiterate how sorry I am that this is happening right now. I know you were looking forward to tomorrow.”

“Well, yeah.” Skye leans against the doorframe. “You only just processed my requisition form.”

“You could’ve just asked for a tree, you know.”

“But you love paperwork.”

“Actually, I used to have Clint Barton file a lot of my paperwork for me,” says Phil. “He was really good at it. Probably still is.”

“Clint Barton?” Skye raises an eyebrow. “Huh. I almost forgot the whole Avengers connection.”

“Oh, I knew Clint before the Avengers Initiative.” Phil inclines his head toward her room, and she nods, stepping aside to let him in. He sits on her couch, the one that’s inexplicably more comfortable than his, and she flops down on the opposite side. “He and Romanov and I were on a strike team together. It was basically a series of road trips, but with guns and a bow and arrow and far too many gas station donuts.”

“Did you like it more than this?” Skye pauses. “You don’t have to lie.”

“It had its perks,” says Phil. “I think May and Bobbi are the only others who know this, but Clint was—we dated.”

“Whoa. You dated Hawkeye? He’s, like, the best-looking Avenger.”

“I happen to agree, though it is the subject of much debate.” Phil smiles wryly. “We were dating when Pegasus happened, actually. When everything happened.”

“What about Audrey?”

Phil sighs. “Audrey was never really my girlfriend. We were just close friends. She and Clint were, too, actually. They might still talk, I’m not sure. But when one of you assumed that was the nature of my relationship with her, I thought it might be easier than the truth.”

“Huh. Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you telling me this, anyway?” asks Skye.

“Because you need your mind taken off things,” Phil says. “And I know you think I don’t tell you enough.”

“Phil?” May’s voice crackles over the intercom. “Can you come up to the cockpit?”

Phil makes a _What can you do?_ face at Skye and stands. “We’ll talk more later.” She nods, even smiles slightly, and Phil wonders if he’s up to her standards of transparency yet. Probably not.

“What is it?” he asks May.

“Morse and Hunter are down.” She says it flatly, matter of fact, so he knows she’s worried. “I just got word from Morse.”

“What happened?”

“We may have overestimated the emptiness of the Hydra base. They were ambushed on their way to Hartley and Hand’s coordinates.”

Phil tries not to cringe outwardly. If he can be vulnerable in front of any team member, it’s May, but he makes an effort, for both their sakes. “What’s the damage?”

“Hunter was hit in the shoulder and the stomach,” says May. “Morse was able to fight them off after he was down, but her arm got strafed. Phil, I don’t know how we hit back after that.”

He breathes out heavily. “So you and Skye need to get to Morse and Hunter, and someone else needs to get to Hartley and Hand.”

“Right,” says May. “And you can’t be on your own.”

“Trip?” Phil asks.

May shakes her head firmly. “Still recovering from the last mission.”

“I need at least one backup. Preferably a strong shot with sharp eyes.”

“You and I both know who you just described.”

“No.”

“Phil—”

“No.”

“Hill’s offered him as relief before in dire situations,” says May. “And you always do this. We need him, Phil.”

“Sometimes I really hate when you’re right.” Phil heaves another deep breath. “Put out the call.”

“You need to make it yourself.”

Phil doesn’t protest this time. May dials out.

“Hill.” Her voice is crisp, no-nonsense, just in that one word. Phil’s always liked Hill.

“Maria,” says Phil. “I need a favor.”

There’s a long pause, and then: “What are you looking for?”

“Can you spare a sniper?”

.:.

Phil’s not sure where Clint was before touching down in the Highlands. All he knows is they arrive within five minutes of each other and Clint isn’t very happy when they meet on the ground on the shore of a loch with a name Phil can’t recall.

“I—”

“All due respect, sir, I’d rather have a sitrep than a conversation.”

“Right.” Since Phil is a professional, he keeps his composure, shifting into Director Coulson mode when all he really wants is to be Phil, Clint’s Phil, the one that likes 60s screwball comedies and morning sex and the bodega on the corner of Flatbush and Parkside that makes the best damn breakfast sandwiches he’s ever had. Instead, he says, “Agents Morse and Hunter were pursuing Agents Hartley and Hand, previously presumed dead, in the Hydra base beneath us. Our intel was that the base was mostly abandoned, but Morse and Hunter were ambushed on their way in and are thus unable to meet Hartley and Hand. May and Skye—” Phil glances over at Skye, who steps forward and shakes Clint’s hand. “—are going to track Morse and Hunter, so you and I are on Hartley and Hand.”

Clint nods. “Gun or bow?”

“Gun,” says Phil. “The Hydra agents may have valuable information for us, so we’ll be using ICERs. Are you familiar with them?”

“Trained on one for a couple weeks, yeah,” Clint says.

“Good,” says Phil. “That means you’ll be better than anyone else here.”

“Hey!” Skye says.

“No offense. Barton, we’re going in mostly blind. I’ll need your eyes to pick up any indication of a possible trail. I don’t think radio silence is necessary. It would almost be beneficial to draw them out so we can take them out as quickly as possible.”

“I have one suggestion, sir.”

“By all means,” says Phil.

“If the opportunity presents itself, I’ll shoot one in the leg with a regular ol’ gun,” Clint says. “And that one can lead us to Hand and Hartley.”

“Crude,” says Phil. “But potentially effective.”

“That sounds insane,” Skye says.

“His best ideas often do,” says Phil, and for a nanosecond, the expression on Clint’s face shifts toward something like fondness. Then Phil blinks and it’s gone again. “May, do you have a position on Morse and Hunter?”

She nods. “These bases always have multiple entrances.”

“So we’ll use a different one. Good hunting.”

May nods again, Skye salutes, and Phil looks at Clint.

“Ready?”

“You know you don’t have to ask, sir,” says Clint. “Let’s go shoot some bad guys.”

.:.

“So a year and a half is kind of a long time, huh?”

No one can move as quietly as Clint Barton. It’s a truth universally acknowledged. Another truth universally acknowledged, which Phil is just now remembering: when there’s no call for radio silence, it’s impossible for Clint Barton to shut up.

“It was a little longer than that,” says Phil. The base is an absolute labyrinth, but Clint’s picked up a few leads, shotgun shells and other signs of carelessness. “I thought you wanted to stick to sitreps.”

“That was before you said you wanted to talk, and before we were alone,” Clint says. “Also, you look brutally hot in a tac vest, sir. My resolve may be weakening slightly.”

“I never said I wanted to talk.” Phil hears indistinct murmurs and backs himself up against a wall, pulling Clint next to him.

“‘I don’t think radio silence is necessary,’” says Clint. “Your words, not mine.”

“Fair point.” Phil aims his ICER around the corner and shoots. He tries not to look too smug when he hears a thud and a shout. The second Hydra agent runs forward, and Clint, true to his word, shoots him in the leg.

“Around the corner, huh?”

“I had a hunch.”

“Combine that and the tac vest and the resurrection, and I don’t even understand how you can be a real person.”

“I get that sometimes,” says Phil. The Hydra agent is on the floor in front of them, writhing in pain. Phil crouches down next to him.

“I’ll get the bullet out of your leg if you tell me where you’re keeping our agents,” he says. The man grunts and spits in Phil’s face. Clint, casual as you please, walks over and kicks the man in the leg with brute force.

The man gasps out a strangled “OK.”

Phil looks up at Clint. “That was a bit extreme.”

“He spit on you, sir,” says Clint. “And you know I’m the only man whose saliva should ever come in contact with your face.”

“Fair point,” says Phil. “I appreciate your insubordination.”

“Got a pen?” the Hydra agent asks.

“Clint, hand me the med kit and get out a pen and paper.”

“I always follow directions the first time given, boss.” Clint passes Phil the kit continues rummaging around in his go bag as Phil takes a closer look at the guy’s leg. It’s a fairly shallow hit, but it must hurt like hell—not necessarily a bad thing. Within ten minutes, the bullet is out of the agent’s leg and he’s still down, thanks to a well-timed shot from Clint’s ICER. (The shot came immediately after Clint informed the man that if they’d been steered wrong, they’d be back to do much worse.)

“Left,” says Clint, and Phil walks alongside him.

“So, do I have to ask what the hell happened, or are you going to tell me on your own?” Clint asks.

“When Natasha leaked those files—”

“That was a fun day.”

“—did you see anything about TAHITI?”

“The island, or the program that brought valuable agents back to life?” Clint pauses. “Oh. Huh.”

“Yeah,” says Phil. “There’s a reason the names of those involved aren’t listed. Not a lot of people know I’m alive.”

“Obviously,” Clint says. “If your boyfriend of five years wasn’t in on the secret. Straight.”

“I wanted them to tell you. I tried to get to you. But even with Skye’s repeated attempts to hack JARVIS—”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how close she got. But contact was impossible through all channels. There was no way of reaching you.”

“You could’ve,” says Clint. “I know you could’ve, Phil. You have that damn plane now. It’s not like you wouldn’t have been able to convince May to stop in Manhattan to refuel or something. Right.”

“I know. I’m not asking you to forgive me, OK?”

“Then what are you asking?”

“I’m really not sure.” Phil hesitates. “I still—”

“Oh, no, no you don’t,” says Clint. “You don’t get to do that.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do,” Clint says, sounding truly pained for the first time. “You don’t get to say you still love me, Phil. Because if that was true, you wouldn’t have given up.”

“I didn’t! I never did. I just told you—”

“Right.”

“What?”

“Directionally, I mean,” says Clint, and Phil can’t help laughing. He looks at Clint, who’s so close to smiling that Phil feels an intense clenching feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Clint,” Phil says. “I know it’s not really the time for this.”

“Remember three Christmases ago?” Clint asks. “When we borrowed Stark’s cabin in Vermont without telling him? When we talked about how we still weren’t married and should probably get around to that? When we had sex in three different locations in the span of 24 hours? We can’t just have that again, Phil. We can’t just turn back the clock and be back in a functional relationship.” He pauses, then adds, “Left, then straight, then we’re supposed to reach a door. I’ll tell you the code when we get there.”

“Clint...”

“I know you tried,” he says. He sounds tired now, like this conversation has worn him out and he just wants to go back to the Tower. That’s probably accurate. It hurts. Phil deserves it. “And I want to forgive you. But it isn’t going to be the same, OK? Not right away. Maybe not ever. I ... I didn’t stop loving you. Didn’t even try.” They reach the door. “Six-one-two-four-four-eight-seven-nine-three-five-two.”

“Did you memorize that?” Phil asks.

Clint shrugs. “It’s only 11 numbers.”

The door swings open. Immediately, three Hydra agents come at them, and Clint takes the brunt of the attack, firing twice before he’s down on the ground, one agent on top of him, fist striking Clint’s jaw. Phil forgets the other two for a second, tackles the one who’s got Clint, and drags him upward to hit his head against the wall—once, twice, three times, even though the first knocks him out. When he turns around, Clint’s taken the other two agents down. Clint spits out a tooth.

“It was in the back,” says Clint. “So I don’t think I’ll replace it this time. Gives you someplace interesting to put your tongue, I guess. Hypothetically.”

Phil holds back an “I love you” and gestures to the pipe to which both Hartley and Hand are cuffed.

“Agent Coulson,” says Hand. “I’d salute, but my wrist is broken in two places.”

“I would, too, but my hand is still metal,” Hartley says. “And I told you, Vic, it’s ‘Director’ now.”

“Right. I was distracted by the tooth Hawkeye just spit on the floor.”

“Good to see you, too, ma’am,” says Clint, saluting jauntily. “Oh. Sorry. I promise I’m not gloating that I have use of my hand. Fuck, it kind of hurts to talk.”

“Silly thing like that’s not going to stop you, though, I’m sure,” Hartley says. “Clint Barton?”

“It’s good to see you, Hartley,” says Clint. He turns to Phil and adds, “We worked together. Chechnya, 2003. You were in Latveria, I think.”

“How do you remember this stuff?”

“I remember everything with you, sir,” Clint says, looking away again. “I have a lock picking kit. Hand, you want to give it a go with the broken wrist?”

“I can still do this,” says Hand, flipping him off.

Clint laughs. “Saucy! I like this new you. Does it have something to do with whatever’s going on here?” He gestures from Hartley to Hand. They look at each other, and Hartley smiles warmly, and realization dawns on Phil, who remembers just how much more easily Clint can read people than he can.

“Barton, get them out of those cuffs,” says Phil.

“Yes, sir.”

Phil radios May. “May? We have them. How are Morse and Hunter?”

“We’re back on the Bus,” says May. “Simmons is patching up Hunter. He’s stable. Morse is fine. Right now, she’s yelling at Hunter for white knighting.”

“Sounds right,” Phil says. “We’ll be back out as soon as we can be. Could be a while. Hartley’s leg is shot to hell. We’re either going to need to find a stretcher, or she’s riding on Barton’s shoulders.”

“That sounds fun,” says Hartley. “I vote for that.”

“We’ll be here,” May says.

“Out,” says Phil. He looks at Clint, who’s helping Hand to her feet. “Ready to do some looting?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Clint says, and he gives Phil the smallest smile before walking back into the hallway.

.:.

“Really, though, it’s more like Christmas than it was going to be before,” says Simmons. Phil doesn’t know where she found the raw materials for stringing popcorn balls, but he’s not going to ask. “There are even more people to celebrate.”

“Assuming they come out of their quarters,” Trip says. The three of them, along with Fitz, Mack, Bobbi, and Skye, are gathered in the lounge. Skye and Trip are playing foosball against Fitz and Mack, who bump up against each other with far too much frequency for it to be a coincidence, and Bobbi’s helping Simmons while Phil pretends to look interested in their conversation and wonders where Clint went.

“Did anyone know they were a thing?” asks Skye.

“Barton knew the second he looked at them,” Phil says. “I’m not sure they were together before they were in captivity.”

“They were,” says Bobbi. “Lance verified it.”

“It’s weird that you call him that,” Fitz says.

“They were married,” Skye reminds him.

“Do we have any idea how they’re alive yet?” asks Trip. Phil knows, but he lets Simmons explain. He’s not really much for conversation right now.

“They told us a bit while we were setting Hartley’s leg,” Simmons says. “Ward shot Hand with a tranquilizer, but a very powerful one. Hydra intended to keep her body—it was never determined exactly why—so she’d been moved into cold storage when she came to. She fought off several agents after she woke up, but in her weakened state, she was overtaken and sent to the facility where we found her.”

“And why were they keeping her alive?” Skye asks.

“Primarily for questioning,” says Simmons. “Although it seems that some of them just liked using loyal SHIELD agents as sort of punching bags. It’s a miracle that they both came out whole as they are.”

“Hartley’s who I’m really curious about,” says Trip.

“Not even Hartley’s sure how she made it through,” Simmons says. “But, like Hand, she woke up in cold storage. She was already at the Scotland base. She got taken out of that room where they were holding them much more often, mostly to have her hand poked and prodded at.”

“Understandably,” says Fitz. “Which we can do now.” Mack chuckles, and Fitz smiles up at him, and Phil wonders if they’re ever going to stop doing this ridiculous dance and fuck already.

“Popcorn balls are all done!” Simmons announces. “Who’s going to help me hang them on the tree? It has to be one of you.” She looks at Trip and Mack imploringly. Trip shrugs and walks over to Simmons.

“OK, I need a replacement teammate,” says Skye. “Esteemed Director?”

Phil groans and says, “Fine, fine,” getting up off the couch and joining them. He’s not terrible at foosball, but he and Skye are no match for the well-oiled machine that is Fitz and Mack. After letting through three goals in as many minutes, he feels a slight vibration against his stomach. Looking down, he notices a phone in his pocket, one he didn’t put there himself. Continuing to play one handed, he pulls out the phone and reads the incoming text.

_Your quarters are kind of boring. Lonely too. C_

If it hadn’t already been obvious, the signoff makes it blatant. “I have to go,” Phil says. “Sleep well, everyone. Visions of sugar plums and all that.”

“Then I’m forfeiting,” says Skye. She adds “Good luck” to Phil under her breath. He briefly considers asking what she knows before thinking better of it and heading for his quarters. When he swings the door open, he sees Clint lounging on his bed, reading _Maus_.

“Is that my copy?” he asks.

“Thanks to your bookshelves, I still don’t have a library card,” says Clint. “Didn’t bring a bookmark, though. You always forget the one thing, right?”

“I don’t care if you bend the spine a bit.” Phil stands in the doorway, hands clasped. Clint puts the book on Phil’s side table and pats the open space next to him on the bed.

“Don’t make me ask you to sit on your own bed,” he says, and Phil walks over, sitting down next to Clint. He stretches out his legs and leans against the headboard. Clint does the same.

“A burner phone?” asks Phil.

“You know me,” Clint says. “King of subtlety.”

“Skye noticed.”

“Where’d you pick her up?”

“The van she was living in.”

Clint smiles. “My kind of girl.”

“She’s a little young for you.”

“Ha, ha.”

“How’s your jaw?” Phil wants to touch, has to physically hold himself back from reaching forward to trace the bruise that’s bloomed on Clint’s face.

“Not broken, surprisingly,” says Clint. “It’s barely a scratch. And I took some of your vicodin. Why do you have vicodin in your medicine cabinet?”

“So you’ll feel safe taking something, apparently. You don’t trust Simmons?”

“I don’t know Simmons. I know you.”

There’s a pause, a long one, and Phil sighs deeply.

“Uh-oh,” says Clint. “That’s usually not a good sign.”

“Do you remember our first Christmas together?”

“Of course. But feel free to remind me.”

“It was snowing like crazy. We were stuck in our apartment, though that was before it was ours,” Phil says. “You were pissed because you’d left your gift for me at HQ.”

“And you were pissed because your gift for me didn’t ship in time.”

“We ended up watching really bad porn on Cinemax and drinking severely spiked eggnog.”

“Thus creating a brand new tradition.” Clint rolls onto his side to face Phil. “I’m mad at how much I’m not mad at you, Phil.”

“I haven’t apologized yet, have I?” Phil asks, and Clint ducks his head. “I am so sorry, Clint. I should’ve done everything I could rather than 90 percent of what I could.”

Clint smirks. “I’ve always known you to give at least 20 more than that. Can I—I’m just going to—”

Clint leans over to Phil, close enough that if Phil tilts his head forward at all, they’ll be kissing. So that’s what he does. It starts hesitant, soft and light, but it soon shifts into something rougher, something hungrier. Clint moves over Phil, laying flush on top of him, and Phil’s glad he’s still in shape because Clint’s heavy but it’s good, it’s great, it’s a lot better than he deserves, right now and for a long time before it. Clint bites his way down Phil’s throat, making it very difficult, but not impossible, for Phil to start asking, “Are you sure you want—” Then Clint’s shushing him, kissing him on the mouth again before pulling back and saying, “Phil? This is my move, not yours, OK? I’m kissing you.”

“I gathered that,” Phil says. “But Clint, I—”

“Look.” Clint leans back slightly, still looming over Phil. “You fucked up. But you understand that you fucked up. And you’re leading this team and you’re doing so much good—”

“You knew I was alive, didn’t you?” The thought comes suddenly, but Phil knows it’s true the second the words are out of his mouth. Clint would never presume what kind of job Phil was doing if he didn’t actually know. Sure enough, Clint visibly swallows and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I—I’m not the only one. I mean, not the only one who wasn’t supposed to know who does.”

“Natasha,” says Phil. “Right?”

“Hill told both of us,” Clint says. “Right after the leak. Figured we’d find out on our own if she didn’t get to us first. She thought—she thought if she said it, it might make it a bit easier. But she wouldn’t tell us how. Just that you were.”

“And you didn’t try to get to me.”

“90 percent,” says Clint. He winks, and Phil’s surprised at his own laugh. “We didn’t have great tech, though, and Fury got wind of us knowing and—he made it a lot harder. So, yeah. I’ve been keeping tabs on you. And your work. You’re amazing at this. You know that, right? No one else could do what you do. It was... It was really hard being mad at you, knowing what I did.” He makes a move to climb off Phil and Phil finds himself clutching Clint’s hips. Clint raises an eyebrow, which shoots back downward as his eyes close and Phil stretches upward to kiss him.

“I think we’re square,” Phil says, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“I didn’t say sorry.”

“You don’t have to.”

Clint’s eyes dart to the left, and he licks his lips and smiles. “12:07 am,” he says. “Merry Christmas, Phil.”

“Merry Christmas, Clint.” Phil loops his arms around Clint’s neck and kisses him again. And again. And a few more times after that, until they’ve reached the breaking point of kissing and tip right on past.

.:.

“Tell me about your team,” says Clint 47 minutes later. His hair is still damp from the shower they took together in Phil’s makeshift bathroom, which is more of a closet with a toilet and tile and an overpowered head-level faucet shoved in. Still worth it, Phil thought, to do it together, because sure, he’d missed a lot of things about Clint—his humor, his ingenuity, his knack for putting new recruits at ease and enemies on edge—but his naked form was pretty high on the list. Phil idly runs his fingers through the short, spiky strands as they lay together, both in boxers Clint found in Phil’s closet.

“You’d rather hear about my team than sleep?”

“Yeah, actually. I would.”

“OK. Well. You know May and Morse.”

“Know and love, yes.” Clint taps his fingers against Phil’s stomach. “Damn. You’re in better shape than you were when you left.”

“You said that.”

“I did?”

“Yeah. You said a lot of things.”

Clint laughs. “Of course I did.”

“So you know those two. And then there’s Bobbi’s ex, Hunter. He used to be a mercenary. I get the feeling you’d get along pretty well.”

“I don’t appreciate the stereotyping, Phil.”

Phil kisses Clint on the head.

“Or the placating.”

Phil does it again.

“Fine. Whatever. Bobbi, May, and Hunter, and then a couple baby scientists.”

“Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons,” says Phil. “Brains like Banner’s and Stark’s, but none of the machismo or rage monster tendencies.”

“Must be nice,” Clint says.

“It really is. And then Antoine Triplett.”

“I know Trip,” says Clint. “I’ve been on a few missions with Trip. Great guy. Almost too great. Like maybe there’s something wrong with him, he’s so great.”

“Your paranoia is adorable,” Phil says. “And then Alphonso Mackenzie. We call him Mack.”

“Right. The mechanic who’s dating Baby Boy Scientist.”

“They’re not dating yet,” says Phil. “But there’s a betting pool concerning when it will.”

“There was one of those for us.”

“So I’d heard. And then there’s Skye.”

“Skye,” Clint says. “I’ve at least heard everyone else’s name before, but before today, I had no real idea who she was. Still kind of have no idea who she is.”

“She’s something,” says Phil. “Picked her up as a prisoner who’d gotten a lot of classified information on SHIELD. She called it hacktivism. Over time, she just kind of ... became SHIELD.”

“Wormed her way in.”

“Yes, to our organization and our hearts.” Clint chuckles, and Phil kisses him on the head again. In a perfect world, Phil would never have to stop kissing Clint on the head ever again. With occasional breaks for sex, he supposes. “She was the one who was really pushing for a Christmas.”

“So that’s why she looked so excited when we got back?”

“Yeah,” says Phil. “Classified gift exchange was her idea.”

“Classified gift exchange?”

“We picked names anonymously.”

“So it’s Secret Santa,” Clint says, smirking.

“No, that makes it sound dumb,” says Phil.

“And ‘classified gift exchange’ doesn’t?”

“I’ve already had to defend myself to May over this.”

Clint laughs and kisses Phil’s chest. “We should sleep. Be fresh for your classified gift exchange tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” says Phil. “I—wait, is that allowed now?”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I do.” Clint shifts slightly to look up at Phil. “Yeah. I think it is.”

“Then I love you.”

“I love you, too, Phil.”

.:.

By the time Phil and Clint make it to the lounge Christmas afternoon, the classified gift exchange appears to be over. One lone wrapped present is still beneath the tree, wrapping paper is strewn everywhere, and those remaining in the lounge—Hand, Hartley, and Bobbi on one couch, Fitz and Mack on the other, and Skye, Simmons, and Trip on the floor—are occupied with their gifts, each other, or some combination thereof. Phil chooses not to disturb Hand, Hartley, and Bobbi’s conversation about the benefits of home hair dye vs. wigs when undercover, and he’s definitely not going near Fitz and Mack while Fitz is sleeping on Mack’s shoulder and Mack is reading _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ , so he steers Clint toward where Skye, Simmons, and Trip have set up a game of Risk.

“You couldn’t wait till I was awake?” Phil asks, sitting down. Clint allows himself to be pulled along.

“No,” says Skye with a scoff. “It’s already past one. And from what the others have told me, you’re supposed to wake up, like, insanely early to open Christmas gifts.”

“6:30, by the way,” Simmons says. “That’s when she woke us up on our day off. 6:30.”

“You could nap,” says Clint.

“I was going to,” she says. “But then Trip started unboxing the game, and I’ve never played before, and I’m quite good at strategy games, so...”

“We just went over the rules,” says Trip. “Do either of you want in?”

“That’s a hard pass for me,” Clint says. “Feel free, sir, but Risk always takes about a year, and I’m hungry and thirsty and holy shit, what is that?”

He’s looking at Bobbi—specifically, Bobbi’s hand, and the contraption she’s holding. Hartley, Hand, and Bobbi stop talking; Hartley and Hand stare at Clint quizzically, while Bobbi grins and tosses the object to Clint.

“It’s a bottle opener with a hidden knife mechanism,” she says. “Mack made it for Hunter. I’m holding onto it for him till he’s allowed to drink again.”

Clint turns to Phil. “I want one,” he says.

“Maybe if you ask Mack nicely,” says Phil.

Mack looks up from his book. “Maybe for the right price,” he says. “Busy right now, though. Simmons got me the perfect book. Or so she says.”

Simmons beams like—well, like it’s Christmas, and Phil tries not to get too sentimental over how nice it is to see her treat Mack like she would any other member of the team. Clint sees his smile, though, and he squeezes Phil’s hand, and Phil squeezes back.

“I don’t think I’ll be joining right now, either,” he says to Skye, Simmons, and Trip, who don’t look too surprised. “I have a present to open.”

“And food, right? We’re going to eat food?”

“Yes, Clint, we’ll eat food,” says Phil. He goes to retrieve his present. “Am I supposed to open it in front of everyone?”

Skye shakes her head. “I drew your name,” she says. “It’s nothing exciting. Just—don’t open it here, OK? Go eat. Open it while you’re having a sandwich or whatever.” Her tone is a little stilted, so Phil just nods and looks at Clint, who hops to his feet and follows Phil to the kitchen.

“What’s up with her?” Clint asks as he rummages through the refrigerator.

“I don’t know,” says Phil. “Want me to open this?”

“Can’t say I’m not curious.” Clint takes out salami, provolone, sprouts, butter, and a loaf of whole-wheat white bread. “How long did you know I was coming? Because these are definitely the ingredients for a Clint Barton Special.”

“The Clint Barton Special has all the same ingredients as the Phil Coulson Classic,” says Phil. “I didn’t know you were coming. If I had, your name would’ve been in the classified gift exchange for sure.”

“And we still would’ve slept through it.”

“Yes. Because we were sleeping that whole time.”

“That’s what we’ll tell them,” Clint says. “Milk? Beer? Eggnog? How the hell do you have some of this stuff?”

“Koenig keeps us well stocked,” says Phil. “I don’t ask questions. Any Diet Coke in there?”

“That stuff’ll kill you.” Clint passes Phil a plate and a soda can, then sits down next to him at the breakfast bar with his own sandwich and Coke. “What are you waiting for? Open it!” After taking a bite, he says, mouth still full of food, “And none of this ‘saving the paper’ shit. You only do that to annoy me.”

“True,” says Phil, tearing apart the wrapping paper. All that’s inside is a small velvet box and an envelope.

“Envelope first,” he says, and Clint pouts while Phil opens it and takes out a sheet of notebook paper.

“Read it out loud,” says Clint, and Phil complies.

“‘AC,’” he begins. “I was really excited to draw your name at first. Then I realized I had no idea what to get you. You’ve already got more than enough ties.’” Phil stops reading and turns to Clint, who’s snickering. “I don’t have an excessive number of ties, do I?” Clint shakes his head but won’t stop snickering. Phil flicks him off and picks back up with the letter. “‘And I couldn’t find any Captain America memorabilia you didn’t already have.’”

“She’s seen your whole collection?” Clint asks.

“Of course not,” says Phil. “I don’t know if even you’ve seen my whole collection. Can I keep reading now?”

Clint nods and takes another bite of his sandwich.

“‘So I got you something, but it wasn’t that good. Then you told me about Barton right before Barton showed up. And now that he’s here, and now that you’re together again, as evidenced by you never coming back for more foosball, I don’t think you need any gift at all. My gift to you is us taking our Christmas leave, which May said you approved, and letting you spend time with your boyfriend. You deserve it. Love, Skye.’” Phil looks up at Clint, who’s smiling.

“How long of leave did you approve?” he asks.

“Well, they’re still on call,” says Phil. “But everyone gets four days off out of the next seven. It’s a rotation.”

“And you?”

“I’m part of the rotation.”

“And where are you planning on spending your time off, Director?”

“Here. With you.”

“Good answer,” Clint says. “She write anything else there?”

“Yeah, there’s—oh.” Phil doesn’t read the postscript out loud. Instead, he puts down the letter, which Clint snatches up, and reaches for the velvet box, which contains a bow tie. It’s orange and green and plaid and hideous.

“‘PS,’” Clint reads. “‘You have too many ties, but I’ve never seen you wear one of these. I bet you already know how to tie it.’ Phil, you know you—” Clint looks over at the tie, which Phil is holding out in front of him. He’s sure the disgusted look on his face is hilarious, judging from Clint’s reaction. Clint does his best to finish his sentence, but “have to wear that” is hardly discernible through his laughter.

“Are you finished?” Phil asks about half a minute later when Clint’s laughter has died down to chuckles.

“Yeah, I think I’m good,” says Clint. “Assuming you let me tie you to the headboard with that.”

“My bed here doesn’t have one of those, Clint. Well, it does. But not one that would work for that sort of thing.”

“Missing the point.”

“This bow tie,” Phil says, “will be in no way involved with my sex life.”

“Please never mention your sex life in a public space again.” Skye walks into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “Did you guys know Risk is super boring?”

“If Risk is boring, you’re not doing it right,” says Clint.

“You’ve played Risk?” she asks.

“No,” says Clint. “But how can a game with an end goal of world domination be boring?”

“It’s possible,” Phil says. “As proven by Risk.”

Skye takes out a can of Coke and leans against the counter opposite Phil and Clint. “Do you like your gifts?”

“One more than the other,” says Phil. He turns to her and adds, “Thank you. I mean that. And you’re welcome to stay here during your leave.”

“I could use the time away,” Skye says. “Really. You and Agent Barton—”

“Clint,” Clint corrects her.

Skye grins at Clint before continuing. “You and Clint could use the time together. I know if I—yeah. Just—I mean, Jemma and Trip are already planning a day trip to Little Bavaria in Michigan, and I can’t miss that.”

“That’s true,” says Phil.

“Wait,” Clint says. “Little Bavaria?”

“Well, that’s not what it’s called,” says Skye. “But that’s what it is.”

“Aw, Phil, how come we’ve never been to Little Bavaria?”

“We’ve been to actual Bavaria,” Phil points out.

“Yeah, and that went so well.” (It hadn’t.)

“Well, this is a lover’s quarrel that I’m sorry I have to miss, but I can only leave a game for so long before Trip decides I’m never going back and rolls the dice for me.” Skye smiles at both of them. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Skye,” says Phil. As she’s leaving the room, he leans his head against Clint’s shoulder. Clint slips his arm around Phil, holding him close.

“You do love your strays, don’t you?” Clint asks. There’s no need for him to speak softly, but he’s doing it anyway. It’s an old habit of his that Phil always liked but never really appreciated—this quiet voice and gentle tone Clint tended to slip into when it was just the two of them. Phil’s not sure exactly why it makes his heart skip a beat to hear Clint doing it now, but he has a pretty good idea.

“One more so than the others.” That earns him a kiss above his ear. “What would you like to do now?”

“Besides the obvious, you mean?”

“Besides that.”

“Well, Hill told me there might be downtime when I got here. So I brought a couple seasons of _Cheers_.”

“I think you mean you brought all of _Cheers_.”

“I brought all of _Cheers_ ,” Clint confirms. “And I’d really like to watch some with you for the third time.”

“We haven’t seen each other in 20 months, and you want to watch a series we’ve seen twice?”

“Well, yeah,” says Clint. “And maybe make out a bit. That OK with you?”

“I’m all for new Christmas traditions, Clint.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

.:.

“You know what I’m going to ask you, right?”

“No, Trip,” says Bobbi, barely looking up from the magazine laying open on her lap. “Neither of us got shot on purpose for Coulson to get back together with his boyfriend. Weren’t you playing Risk?”

“Simmons left to check on Hunter and Skye’s getting something to drink.” Trip sits down next to her. “But you did know Coulson and Barton were dating.”

“Yup. Where did Hand and Hartley say they went?”

“They’re taking a nap, or so they claimed,” says Trip. “And you knew that Barton would eventually be called in as a contingency plan.”

“I could’ve guessed,” Bobbi says. “And Fitz and Mack are...?”

“Probably playing Call of Duty. Quit changing the subject. Now, Hunter would do anything for you.”

“He might.” Bobbi smirks.

“So...” Trip raises an eyebrow at her, and she laughs and shakes her head.

“No.”

“But how else does Barton get called in on Christmas Eve?”

“Sometimes...” Bobbi hesitates. “OK, this is going to sound cheesy.”

“OK,” says Trip. “I’m ready for it.”

“Sometimes, things happen because they’re supposed to,” she says. “I’ve known Phil for years. Longer than Clint has. And this—them being together—it’s just something that’s supposed to be.”

“You’re right,” says Trip. “That was cheesy.”

“But do you believe me?”

“I believe that you didn’t get shot on purpose,” Trip says, sounding as though he’s choosing his words carefully.

“But the rest of it?”

“Trip doesn’t believe in love,” says Skye, flopping down on Bobbi’s other side. “And usually, I don’t either. But AC and Clint—they’ve got a good thing going.”

“Did he like his gifts?” Bobbi asks.

Skye nods. “Sure you don’t want to go to Little Bavaria, Bobbi? It’s going to be great.”

“I don’t think I—”

“Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name,” Clint hollers as he tugs Phil toward Phil’s quarters. When they pass the lounge, Clint turns toward Phil and kisses him, long enough that Skye whistles, Bobbi whoops, and Trip averts his eyes. Phil rolls his eyes when Clint breaks off the kiss and bows, but he’s smiling.

“We’ll see you in four days, kids,” Clint says over his shoulder, taking Phil’s hand in his.

Bobbi clears her throat. “Actually, Little Bavaria’s looking pretty good right now.”


End file.
